Not I, Said the Vixen

by Bill S. Ballinger

  Ivy regarded me anxiously. “I’m trying awfully hard… to tell you honestly, but it’s difficult to describe. I’m not positive I thought… of the figure… as being one of those—freaks. Maybe I did.” She paused and took a deep breath. “Yes, I remembered all the dirty things that had been said to me.” Her voice clouded in embarrassment. “Some of the words he had used were—unbelievable.”

  “I wish you’d try to think back… when the calls started. Had you ever heard his voice before?”

  “No.” Ivy was definite. “I’d recognize it, though. It was so… hateful!”

  I thought about what she had just told me. It was an all-too-familiar occurrence in the big cities. I had heard descriptions of the strange, hot, moist, insinuating voices calling women in the silent hours of the night. And I’d read transcripts, too, of the conversations. It was not only frightening, it was repulsive. A series of such phone calls would be sufficient to drive many women to the edge of terror. I could find no reason to believe that Ivy should be an exception. I asked, mildly, “Did you ever tell any of your friends about the phone calls?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t want to talk about them.”

  “Not even to Robert Knox?”

  She didn’t reply immediately. Her fingers worked the carved arm of the chair. Eventually, she said, “I’m not quite sure. I may have mentioned I’d been receiving calls… or that I had a new admirer on the phone. Something like that. But if I did tell him, I certainly didn’t make a big thing out of it. I may have said it jokingly…”

  “Why would you treat it lightly? It wasn’t a joke.”

  When she replied, her voice was strained. “Because Robert’s straight-laced about many things. If something’s a little bit off color, he doesn’t ever forget it. Robert doesn’t like sin… any kind of sin. Directly or indirectly…” I nodded as she looked at me, evidently waiting for my understanding. She went on. “I never could… really discuss things with him. If I’d told him… right out about this sex maniac… or moron… who’d been calling me, Robert would’ve thought it was my fault. He’d say that I’d led the man on. So… can’t you see why I had to be careful?”

  I understood. Then I asked, “Do you think that Knox might remember you telling him about the telephone calls?”

  “If he wants to… just as long as he doesn’t get too involved.”

  “It’s vitally important that he supports your story,” I told her. Then, with surprise, I noticed the time. The club had filled for lunch, and emptied, while we talked. I could see the strain on Ivy’s face; undoubtedly my own face reflected much the same. I rang for a houseman, and told him to call a taxi to the door. I arranged to meet with Ivy again the next afternoon. There was still much—almost too much—to talk about.

  When her cab arrived, we walked to the entrance. Impulsively, she held out her hand. I took it. “Go back to the Claymore,” I warned her. “Stay there until I call you tomorrow.”

  “All right. Counselor.” She smiled.

  I was conscious of the warmth, the softness in Ivy’s palm. I released her hand. “Goodbye,” I told her casually.

  But I didn’t feel that way.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Tim Nordeen wore a vaguely preoccupied air as he skirted the inlaid tile table and maroon leather chairs in the reception room to the offices of March and Taylor. With decreasing momentum he stopped before the desk of Lydia Gorham as she emerged from a closet, carrying two cups and saucers. Lydia smiled and headed toward the office of Cyrus March. “Mr. March is in,” she told Nordeen, “and I’m sure it’s all right if you just go in.”

  Nordeen trailed after the secretary. March was seated behind his big desk, numerous bottles containing pills and capsules spread before him. The attorney put away the medicines and took the cup of coffee which Lydia handed to him. His face was pale, and dark blue circles underlined his eyes. Subtly, Nordeen’s manner changed; the heavy round face assumed a smiling, almost clownish air and his voice was flippant as he greeted March. By ignoring, and making light of the situation, Nordeen extended help, in his own way.

  “What’ve you found, Tim?” March asked, sipping the scalding hot coffee.

  Nordeen shifted his heavy body, then carefully deposited his own cup and saucer on the floor beside his chair. Taking a small notebook from his inside jacket pocket, he replied. “I’m having it all typed up. But in the meantime, I thought you’d like a rundown. I know you’re in a hurry… and you got to remember I haven’t had much time.”

  “Go ahead.” March swiveled his chair around behind the desk, and sat nursing the coffee cup between his hands.

  Nordeen noticed the lawyer’s red-rimmed eyes above the blue circles. “You got the only red, white and blue eyes in town, Cy,” he observed. March smiled, but didn’t reply. The investigator shrugged, and opened his notebook. “Which one do you want me to start with?”

  “It makes no difference.”

  Nordeen began his report. “Robert Knox… the third. Son of… oh, hell, Cy, there were two others, and the first Knox’s name was Noah. Family fortune originally made in land and…”

  “Skip the financial report, I know it,” March interrupted.

  Nodding, Nordeen continued. “Robert Knox, the third, is thirty-one… never married. He has a younger brother Bruce… twenty-eight, who’s married. Bruce is already in the family businesses, and is shaping up to be a pretty smart operator. Robert, on the other hand, hasn’t done much of anything—except clump around with his foot in a bucket. He’s going to school—and he wants to be a preacher.”

  March waved his hand impatiently. “What’re the details on Robert?”

  “Specifically… he was graduated with a B.A. in sociology from Stanford. He then opened an art gallery on La Cienega which, thanks to his own money, never went broke. He sold the gallery, taking a whopping loss, when he was drafted. He served a short hitch in the army as a medical corpsman, but was discharged because of recurring attacks of hives. Bad ones.” Nordeen glanced up. “I don’t think family pull had anything to do with his getting out. The guy’s pretty high-strung and emotional… from what I hear. He was probably plain, downright allergic to the whole army.” He added, “Nerves.”

  March agreed. “Hives can make anyone sick.”

  “Anyhow, Knox was let out of the army. In the meantime, someplace, he’d gotten religion.” Nordeen looked up and grinned. “Maybe a sergeant gave it to him, who knows?” Shrugging, he continued, “He wanted to be a minister. As long as the kid brother, Bruce, was in the business, the rest of the family didn’t really care… or maybe they didn’t take it seriously. In the past, Robert had gone off on other kicks. He’d get all steamed up… then lose his interest. But this time he was serious about religion. He enrolled in St. Mark’s Theological Seminary… and has stuck out the course for the entire three years. Next month he gets a degree… B.D. … Bachelor of Divinity.”

  “Then what’re his plans?”

  “He can become a minister if he wants. But I think Robert Knox has his sights on bigger and better things. Not just any old regular church for him… someday he wants to be an archbishop. That means he’d better have a doctorate degree of some kind. As I understand it, right now he’s considering either returning to St. Mark’s another four years to get his Th.D.—Doctor of Theology—or going for the same amount of time to the University of California for a Ph.D.”

  Nordeen paused, reached down for his coffee and took a sip of it. He lifted an eyebrow inquiringly. “At this point you are entitled to one of my famous forecasts. Do you want it?”

  “From observation, hearsay or tarot cards?” March attempted to meet Nordeen’s flippancy.

  “All three.” Nordeen’s jowls wagged. “I see this Robert Knox, the third, ending up with one great big cathedral—in about twenty years. Sort of a place to call his own. By then he’s going to be the Most Reverend—or whatever it is—Archbishop Knox, and every time something important happens, he’ll be quoted on what he
thinks about it.”

  “He’ll have a wife who can really live it up, dispensing bounty to the poorer millionaires who need it. These millionaires, of course, make up the underprivileged sections of Archbishop Knox’s archdiocese. This may strip the Reverend Archbishop down to his last few millions, but he’ll do it with a full heart because he loves the poor.”

  March smiled weakly. His hands clasped each other, beneath the desk where Nordeen couldn’t see them. “I have the impression you don’t like the Reverend Knox.”

  Nordeen opened his pudgy eyes wide in surprise. “With his family’s backing, I don’t see how Knox can fail. What more can a man ask from life—money, prestige, power… and a ‘title.’ Hell, I’d go for it myself!” He paused before continuing soberly, “One thing seems to be missing in the guy, Cy. He just ain’t human!”

  “Has there ever been any scandal about him?” March asked.

  “With girls?” Nordeen shook his head. “Not a breath. Not even a wheeze.”

  “How well known is his… former engagement… to Ivy Lorents?”

  Nordeen pondered. Finally, he said, “I don’t think many people know about it. Naturally, the Knox family now denies any such embarrassing event happened, and Robert—himself—is passing it off with sort of ‘I didn’t quite hear your question, sir.’ Actually, there was never any official announcement made regarding it. So there wasn’t much publicity. But the story’s around, all right, if you want to listen.”

  “Enough that Joe Willard will pick it up?”

  “I’ll lay odds he will.”

  March sighed. “Okay, Tim. What’s next?”

  “Oh!” Nordeen removed two photographs from his pocket. “I’ve got some pictures. Here’s one of Robert Knox…”

  “I’ve met him.”

  “Well… here’s one of Arthea Simpson. Want to see it?” March took the photograph and looked at it. The dead woman stared back. There was no delicacy in her features, and little that made Arthea Simpson attractive. Her face was dominated by a straight, heavy nose and a slightly projecting, aggressive chin. March decided that her eyes had been light colored, and… ‘popping.’ Her hair was very short, nearly cropped. The head was set solidly on a short, powerful neck. March turned the photo, face down, and slowly placed it in his desk drawer.

  Nordeen, watching, asked, “Ready to hear about Arthea—affectionately known as ‘Arty’—the dead gladiator—or gladiatoress? Say… is that word right, Cy?”

  “If you want to coin the word—use it.”

  Nordeen glanced at his notes. “Only child… 34 years old… five feet six inches… one hundred forty pounds of muscle. Both parents died before she was eighteen… raised under a guardianship. Never married.” Nordeen opened his eyes. “I wonder why?” he inquired innocently. “Do you have the financial picture on her, too?”

  “Enough of it,” March replied impatiently.

  The end of Nordeen’s large shoe tipped the cup on the floor beside his chair. Coffee spilled into the saucer and on the carpeting. Leaning over, Nordeen picked up the cup, then rose to his feet. “Guess I’ll get some more,” he remarked amiably.

  “Lydia will get you some,” March told him irritably.

  “I’ll get it myself,” Nordeen was unperturbed. Leaving March’s office, he approached Lydia’s desk, carrying the cup. While the secretary refilled it, Nordeen observed quietly, “Sort of grouchy today, isn’t he?”

  Lydia looked up briefly from her chore. “He’s still in pretty bad shape.”

  Nordeen nodded, and returned to March’s office. During his absence, March had taken another capsule, washing it down with his cold coffee. He sat behind his desk, temporarily composed. “All right, Tim,” he greeted Nordeen, “let’s get on with Arthea Simpson.”

  “Sure, Cy.” Nordeen squatted his big body in the chair and resumed his report. “Let’s see…? You’ve got her financial background. Enough dough to give even the Knoxes a run for their money. Ummm… she went to Vassar…” Nordeen scratched a sagging jowl and looked up. “Say, you know something, Cy? A person would think that Arthea and Knox might have a lot in common… same kind of background, money, et cetera. But as far as I could find out, I don’t think they even knew each other. Maybe they did.…” The investigator returned to his notes. “Amateur sportswoman. Real records… mostly in the state and southwest, though. Golf, tennis, squash. Some skiing. Kept horses… tried to race them…”

  “I get the idea.” March stopped him.

  “I’m not even getting warmed up,” Nordeen complained. He shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Arty always had a bunch of leeches hanging around. At least you got to give her credit for being a fast gal with a buck. She liked parties… ’specially her own. Threw some which echoed up and down the canyons. Liked actors, actresses, pro players—football, baseball, jockeys… also the scraggly beard set, weirdos—far out musicians and artists. Any questions, maestro?”

  “Plenty. But none you can answer.”

  Nordeen swirled the cup of coffee and took a sip. “Too cold,” he muttered. The jocular air disappeared. He pulled his heavy body upright in the chair and regarded March, levelly. “I know you’re looking for a motive, Cy. Or at least something resembling a motive which Willard and company will try to use. I may have found it.”

  “Let’s hear.”

  Nordeen, however, evaded a direct reply. Crossing one fleshy leg over the other, he spoke cautiously. “Rumors,” he explained, “are hard to run down. Suppose I’m talking to someone… and he says, ‘oh, by the way, I did hear something. Don’t know myself, and I can’t prove it, but…” The investigator spread his hands wide in a deprecating gesture. “That’s the way it goes. A hint here, a remark there. Nothing solid. But after awhile, you begin to get an idea.”

  “Such as what? Come to the point, Tim.”

  “All right. Let’s say… that quite a few people thought that Arthea Simpson was ‘queer’.”

  The attorney’s office was very quiet. March sat motionless at his desk. Finally he asked, “What’s your opinion?”

  “Everything seems to point to it,” the investigator replied. “But it still remains hearsay until Willard can prove it.” March picked up a pencil and turned it over in his fingers. “It might explain why Arthea stopped at Ivy’s apartment so late at night. And it might also be the reason for the threatening phone calls which Ivy received.”

  “Huh?”

  March’s mind seemed to be following a tenuous trail. Abruptly, he shook his head, as if to clear it of thoughts. “What have you found out about Ivy?”

  “I haven’t started on her, yet. I haven’t had time. I thought I’d better give you what I had on Robert and Arthea as quickly as possible. I can cover Ivy out here, but do you want a report from New York, too?”

  March thought about it. “I suppose so,” he replied. “Just to check. But you don’t have to make a big job out of it, unless you dig up something important.”

  “I’ve got a connection in New York. I’ll get started here, and let him get going there.” Nordeen rose heavily to his feet. “I’ll tell him just a once-over-lightly, unless otherwise indicated.”

  “Thanks.” March sat, deep in thought, for a long time after Nordeen had left the office. Then he stood and walked around his desk. Restlessly, he began to pace his office, stopping occasionally to light a cigarette and after a few puffs, snub it out. Finally, he lifted his phone and dialed a number. “Pete?” he asked.

  “Hello, Cy,” the doctor replied over the line.

  “Can you meet me at home? As soon as I get there?”

  “I could—if it’s important.”

  “If I’m going to get up tomorrow morning, I have to go to bed—and sleep all night. I need a shot to put me out.”

  There was a pause. Then the doctor’s voice agreed slowly. “All right, Cy. I’ll meet you there in half an hour… or so.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  When I arose the next morning, I felt pretty well. I’d made it th
rough the third day, and from here on it should be easier. Putting on a pair of blue slacks, a slate blue shirt, and a lemon yellow jacket, I went to the office.

  It was a busy day. First, Bert Taylor came in to discuss our defense so he could start looking up the law on it. I informed him about my meeting with Canfield and Joe Willard, and that I had waived the preliminary hearing. “What’re you going to do?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I told Bert. “When in doubt, we sit tight. Willard is going to try for a first degree murder charge. Evidently he thinks he can get it.”

  “On what basis?”

  “Well… he must feel that he’s found a motive. If he’s found one, then it’s up to him to prove premeditation.” I stared at Taylor, who already in his mind was leafing through his books, and told him, “I don’t believe he can do it.”

  Bert pulled himself together. “You’ll try for a dismissal?”

  “Naturally. But Willard seems sure of himself and I expect our motion to be denied.”

  “You must have some idea of what your defense is going to be?”

  “I think we have a choice of three under the circumstances. Crime prevention, self-defense, and defense of property. I’m not too sure about self-defense… which leaves us crime prevention and defense of property. We’ll plead both of them.”

  Taylor nodded. “All right,” he agreed, “I’ll check the statutes again. But how do you think it stands? What’s your opinion? Is Ivy Lorents guilty?”

  “She claims she isn’t, and I’ll believe her until otherwise proven wrong.” I grinned reassuringly at Bert. “There’s still a great deal of background to be filled in.”

  “When’ll you have it?”

  “I’ve been working on it,” I told him. “I should have more of it tonight.”

  Bert left, and after a minute I pressed the intercom and spoke to Lydia. I told her to reach Robert Knox. I wanted to speak to Knox about Ivy’s story regarding the anonymous phone calls. If I could establish that sex threats had been made, we had a strong case. I doubted that any jury would blame Ivy for shooting first—and asking questions later. However, the only substantiation she had was Robert Knox.